


Running From Lions

by tryslora



Series: Running From Lions [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Bonding, Community: rarefest, Multi, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M, Wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:29:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The war is done and his parents are gone, and Draco decides it is time to rebuild the Malfoy name. But in reaching out to the Ministry for one simple project of cataloging artifacts, Draco gets more than he bargained for. Much more. Wishes aren’t simple things, it turns out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running From Lions

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a prompt kitty_fic left for the rarefest on Livejournal. Many thanks for the lovely prompt, hon!
> 
> As always, the characters and world of Harry Potter are owned by JK Rowling; I just like to play with them.

“Item number two hundred and forty one.” Granger’s voice was as calm and clipped as it had been seven hours before when they began this inventory at half seven. She seemed unruffled, while Draco struggled to maintain a calm, almost cold demeanor in the face of a seemingly endless supply of Dark Artifacts to catalogue. “One silver lamp, bearing the appearance of Arabian design, although the maker’s stamp is clearly marked Wales. Runes along the spout remain unidentified. Harry are you writing this down?”

“My hand’s asleep.” Potter laid his quill on on the table and stretched his fingers, flexing and closing his hand several times. “We’ve been at this for hours, ‘Mione, except for lunch.”

“Which was lovely,” Granger said quickly. “Do please tell your elves that, Malfoy.”

Draco smiled thinly. “I’m quite certain they were pleased to see company whose palettes weren’t nearly so particular as my late parents. I shall be hearing about it for days. If you truly wish to please them, make this drag on longer, perhaps several days so they might continue to feed you.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm,” Potter said, picking up his quill again. “Trust me, Malfoy, this is as dull for us as it is for you. If you’d rather, we could send Ron along tomorrow. I think he’s partnered with Flint this week.” He shook his head. “I’m still confused how someone like Marcus Flint ended up in Artifact Analysis and Neutralization.”

“Experience,” Granger replied. “When you grow up surrounded by Dark Artifacts, you tend to learn a good deal about them. And speaking of that… Malfoy—” She held up the lamp. “What can you tell me about this? It looks disturbingly like a wishing lamp.”

“Let me see it.” Draco reached for the lamp that was offered, turning it in his hands as he frowned. “I was ten when this was purchased. Borgin and Burke’s, May 1991, shortly before my eleventh birthday. It was a gift for my mother as I readied myself for Hogwarts.”

“You bought it?” Potter raised both eyebrows.

“No, Potter.” Draco gave him a look. “My father doted upon my mother, and knew she would miss me, thus the gift.” He handed it back to Granger, who frowned as she twisted the object this way, and that. “Don’t read that aloud,” he cautioned as Granger quietly sounded out the runes on the side.

She stopped in some surprise, a faint flush staining her cheeks. “I do know better than that. Why? What does it say?”

“Loosely translated: Let the wish of thy heart become thy desire.”

“Which means?” Granger gestured and Harry wrote quickly. “She couldn’t wish you home again, could she? I don’t see how this helped with missing you. Or how it is dark.”

“Not all Dark Artifacts are dark by design,” Draco murmured. “Desire can twist the heart when it hungers without the mind to lay restrictions upon it. Desire without intelligence is dangerous.”

“No offence, Malfoy, but I don’t really want to talk about desire with you.” Potter rolled his eyes.

Draco smirked. “That sentiment is mine as well. In the end, my mother never used the lamp, and it was stored in the attic along with, as you’ve noticed, a thousand other artifacts acquired throughout the history of the Malfoy family.”

“Focus, please.” Granger pursed her lips as she considered the engraving, thumb sliding over the texture of the surface. “Do you recall anything else about this particular item? We only have a few more to go before we reach two hundred and fifty, and then I believe we can be done for the night.” She hissed, pulling her thumb back and sticking it in her mouth.

“Problem?” Potter looked worried. 

Draco couldn’t blame him, considering injury by Dark Artifact was rarely a good thing. “I don’t remember anything else,” he offered, watching Granger suck the tip of her thumb. “Certainly nothing about blood feeding it. Although I do suppose that might have been left out of the original description.”

Potter picked up the lamp and looked at it, using his thumb to brush away the tiny droplet of blood that stained the outside. He ran diagnostics with his wand, adding, “Malfoy’s right. Nothing’s changed after you pricked yourself. Just a sharp edge on the etching.”

Draco reached out, hand closing over Potter’s, waiting for him to release the lamp so he could take it back. “As far as I am aware, it is activated by reading the runes calmly and clearly in the original language. Write that down, Potter, and we can move on to item two hundred and forty two.”

Granger watched as Draco place the properly catalogued item back in its box and set it aside. Draco held out a small box, and intoned, “Item two hundred and forty two. The wedding ring given by one Aloysius Avander Malfoy to Athena Rosier in the year 1325. According to family history it guaranteed their bond, ensuring their love such that they passed on within hours of each other in 1412. This ring has never been used for a marriage since, lest the same thing happen to another couple.”

She took the box from him, opening it to look at the ring inside, wincing slightly at the feel of the magic. “I think this one is best noted and sealed for transport to the Ministry. Then we should move on, Harry.”

Good. They had a chance of finishing, and Draco could get Granger and Potter out of his house. The peace and quiet would only last until they came back the next day to continue going through every last Dark Artifact in Malfoy Manor. But at least he would have the evening to himself.

#

The Manor fell silent once the Auror and Artifacts Expert had departed, and Draco told himself that it was as he desired. After all, he wasn’t listening for the click-clack steps of his mother’s heels approaching, or the heavier stride of his father. Lips pursed, he refused to give in to the melancholy of grief. It had been three months now since the elder Malfoys had passed away and the Manor had fallen to Draco’s hands. Grief was a weakness. Draco was a Malfoy, after all, and it fell to him to rebuild the family’s reputation.

Which was how he had come to host the Ministry’s employees in his home, at his own invitation. He had openly offered them the chance to review and catalog each and every artifact housed within Malfoy Manor, allowing them to inspect those which concerned them, and potentially remove those they deemed dangerous. Today had seen seven artifacts leave with Potter and Granger, destined for a deep vault in the Ministry, and thirty more had been sealed into appropriate cases and remained on display in the Manor. The rest were his to do with as he wished, so long as he never used them for Dark purposes.

He smiled slightly, his hand falling atop the lamp that had been central to so much discussion that afternoon. Many Dark items were only Dark through intent, and many of those had limited reach. His mother had been unable to wish the war done, and she had been unable to wish his own safety while beneath Voldemort’s guiding hand. Or perhaps she had tried, and magic had intervened in Draco’s life in the shape of encounter after encounter with Potter during the war.

And of course it was Potter who was assigned his particular case now. Draco had come to realize that his life and Potter’s were intertwined; when one acted, the other reacted. At least it seemed as if they had finally put the worst of their past behind them. Potter had thanked Draco for his actions at the end of the war by testifying on his behalf during the trials, ensuring that the Malfoys weren’t ruined and that Draco had his freedom, and his life.

Draco refused to count Potter as a friend, and certainly couldn’t consider either Weasley or Granger as even a possible friend, but they were at least civil. Which made this exercise far easier.

He lifted the lamp, thumb sliding over the runes much like Granger’s had earlier in the day. Let the wish of thy heart become thy desire. It was the way of Dark magic to burrow into one’s soul, and Draco knew better than to pronounce the runes aloud. His thumb stilled, paused on the last rune, feeling warmth from the lamp. As he drew away, he felt a sting and when he looked, a small bead of blood welled up on the tip of his thumb. Frowning, he popped it into his mouth, putting pressure with his tongue as he waited for the bleeding to stop.

If he had become so careless that he would repeat mistakes made by Granger earlier in the day, then he must be exhausted. Leaving the lamp on the table, he decided to turn in. After all, tomorrow would bring another long day, and more time spent in strained company.

But at least it would bring a semblance of life to the Manor, rather than the oppressive stillness that had marked the halls since his parents’ deaths.

#

Potter and Granger arrived later on the second day than they had on the first. Glich ushered them into the dining room to offer breakfast before the elf disappeared once more. They relaxed for a time, enjoying fresh bread with sweet butter and a chunky marmalade, and took their time until a pot of tea was drained dry.

It was almost as if they pretended to be friends.

His parents would roll over in their graves, if they knew he hosted a mudblood at the formal table, and treated her with respect. Yet Draco had found himself entertained by Granger’s conversation, the quick bright mind flashing from topic to topic as quickly as Draco himself often did.

“Did I just see you smile?” Potter gestured with the remains of his third thick slice of bread. “I didn’t think you could do that. Thought your face might crack.”

The genuine smile that was forming thinned as Draco’s attention shifted. “Lack of reaction is bred into a Malfoy from birth,” he said dryly. “There’s a reason why I happen to be a brilliant Occlumens. I’ve never seen a need to wear every emotion upon my face.”

“There’s something to be said for sharing thoughts, though,” Granger mused. “I think if I hadn’t had Ron and Harry all along, I’d have gone completely mad.”

“You didn’t?” Potter teased, ducking as she gave him a good-natured thwap.

They had an ease between them that Draco almost envied. Even with his close friends, his life was nothing like that. There were roles to be played and rules to be followed. Strictures in place to ensure the inevitability of life amongst those of proper society.

It was dull, Draco realized. Not to mention leaving one with a life empty of interaction. He longed for that easy give and take, that ability to know and be known in return. And he knew he was unlikely to ever have such a thing within the Pureblood society. Which, of course, explained his strange pleasure in his current company.

“Don’t you ever get lonely?”

Draco schooled his expression, refusing to allow Granger to see how she echoed his own thoughts. One eyebrow arched delicately. “Have I ever given you reason to believe I might be lonely, Granger?”

She stared back at him, her gaze keeping his trapped because to look away would show weakness. He fought to keep his composure, expression calm and cool as he felt as if she tried to see through him. Her smile was gentle when it came. “All the time, Draco,” she said quietly. “All the time.”

Jaw set and tight, he turned away, discomfited by her perception. “I have not given you leave to use my given name.” He distanced himself with words.

“We aren’t children anymore,” she countered. “Call me Hermione, and call Harry by his name, and we’re going to call you Draco.”

“I am?” Potter asked.

“You are,” Granger informed him stubbornly.

“We have work to do.” Draco stood, ignoring the ridiculous question of naming conventions. He waited, pulling Granger’s chair out so she could stand—it was only polite—then gestured for the two to exit the room before him so that they could adjourn to the library and the artifacts that awaited them. With luck, they could finish this work in a few days, and he would be rid of this annoying pair before they slipped any further through his defences.

#

They finished the cataloging of every artifact late on Thursday, after three long days of work not to mention three long days of Granger insisting that he call her Hermione, and refer to Potter as Harry. Draco refused, calling her Mudblood at least once to make his point, but when her expression fell hurt, he called her Granger once more.

But somehow, in his mind, they had become Hermione and Harry, and he was irritated by that, as if they had wormed their way into his home and left some part of themselves behind. Some part that somehow belonged there, impure and irritating though they were.

Worse was on Friday as he moved through the halls, ears pricked and seeking the sound of footsteps. He turned at a sound, half expecting to see Harry emerging from the library and hear him calling out to Hermione still within. He heard echoes of their voices when no one was there, caught scents that reminded him of their presence.

By night he felt he was going mad. He sank down into the soft wingback chair by the fire, staring into the flames, as if understanding might be hidden there. He held the silver lamp in his hands, looking at the muted scarlet reflections of flames against the silver. He murmured the word desire, just one word, as his thumb touched the runes. Eyes closed, he let his mind float.

If he were to be completely honest with himself, the Manor was empty of all emotion. It rang hollow with every step he took, and it sucked at him, draining him dry.

It was a terribly lonely place. It had been so before Voldemort, even with himself and his parents in residence, and was only darker yet with the ghostly afterimages that torture had imposed upon rooms now locked away. His breath caught in his chest as he realized that Harry and Hermione had somehow brought life into the manor, much the way they had brought hope years before when Draco refused to give the truth of their identities to Voldemort.

They had changed this place. Perhaps for the better.

Not that Draco needed it to be changed.

His fingers tightened around the long neck of the lamp. He told himself that he didn’t need anything; he was perfectly fine as he was. He was a Malfoy, after all, and this was the life he had always expected. Refined. Privileged.

And lonely.

With a sigh, he dropped into fitful sleep, the lamp still held loosely in his hands, and dreamed of a beautiful Mudblood who spoke with wit and intelligence, and a bloke with green eyes that sparkled with mischief.

#

“If it would please Master Malfoy, Glich will tell the Mudblood to leave?”

Draco woke to the elf’s voice in his ear, quite close and sounding hopeful. He stretched, stiff from having slept curled in the wingback chair, his clothes rumpled and hair tousled as well. He blinked, uncertain he had heard correctly. “Mudblood?”

“Miss Granger.” The elf’s voice was dry and disapproving. “She is waiting in the foyer for you, Master Malfoy. But if you wish, I will tell her that Mudbloods are no longer accepted in Malfoy Manor.”

“Too late.” Draco couldn’t see her yet, but he heard the resignation in her voice from the hallway. “The Mudblood is standing right here listening to every word you say, but I know it’s just the way you were taught, Glich, and I don’t blame you at all.” She stepped into the room, smile falling away. “You look like hell, Draco.”

“It’s morning,” he snapped. “It is generally considered good behaviour to send notice to someone before coming to see them, in order to allow them to prepare.”

“It’s afternoon, and I did send notice early this morning.” She cast a sideways glance at the elf who had sunk to his knees, head bowed. “Weren’t you told?”

Draco stood slowly, taking a moment to smooth his clothes and unrumple his hair as he thought through the information he had been given. One: he had slept straight through morning and into afternoon, and in his library no less. Two: his elf had failed to rouse him to go to bed, and had failed to convey a message sent directly to him. Three: Granger—no, Hermione—was here and somehow expecting to see him socially, as if it were no matter at all. Or perhaps… he smiled politely as a thought occurred to him. “Is there a difficulty with one of the artifacts? Something that you need to see again?”

She shook her head, the motion making stray strands pop out, curling to frame her face. “Not at all. Everything’s quite in order. But Harry and I—”

“You and Potter what?” Draco interrupted, trying to keep any trace of interest from his voice.

“Harry and I—” Hermione paused, giving him a sharp look as she emphasized the name. “We thought you could do with an afternoon out of the Manor. Since it seems that none of your other friends are willing to do so, we’ve decided to take it upon ourselves to make certain you see sunlight again.” She smiled, the expression strangely shy. Draco didn’t like the way it pulled at him, made him want to reassure her.

“I walk every afternoon in the gardens.” Draco kept his voice steady and calm. “I assure you, my skin is this pale naturally, not due to lack of sunlight.”

“Have you left these grounds since your trials?”

Draco swallowed. He couldn’t answer that with an honest yes. It had been three years since he had left the Manor and its grounds. He had elves to fetch and carry, and he had personal relationships with all the best boutiques, such that they were more than willing to come to him in order to measure and design his clothing and anything else he might need. He smiled thinly, as if it were no matter. “I have everything I need here.”

“And a hostile world that hates the name Malfoy out there,” Hermione said gently. “We’re well aware of the difficulties of being in public after the war, and I imagine it must be far worse for you than for us. I remember when they spit at your feet during the trials, and the names they called. And the threats you received as well.”

His lip lifted in a sneer. “I don’t need your pity, Granger.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, it isn’t pity.” Hands on hips, she glared at him, eyes flashing. “I am trying to be nice. Do you have to make it so bloody difficult?” She took two steps closer and grabbed his hands, tugging lightly. “It’s a picnic, Draco. One simple picnic. If you decide that you absolutely cannot stand our company afterwards, then you’ll be done with us.”

“Why?”

She flushed, and Draco wondered if Hermione had any idea of the answer. “Because I woke up this morning and it sounded like something I needed to do. Harry, too.”

Draco had an image of the two of them waking together, hair wildly tousled, likely taking over more space than their bodies. One eyebrow arched. “Are you and Harry together?” It was easy to imagine them entangled. Comfortable. He forced the attractive image from his mind.

“What?” Her eyes widened in response as she followed his logic. “Oh, no. No. We’ve never been that way, but we talk all the time and we’re roommates.” Her head tilted. “Does it matter?”

He snorted. “Hardly. Neither of you makes an appropriate match for a Malfoy.”

“Nor an appropriate friend, I’m certain, but we’re taking you out anyway.” Hermione had her wand in her hand and with a few quick spells, his clothes were clean and transfigured into something Muggle and pedestrian, and his hair lay neat upon his head.

“If you can do this…” he ran his fingers through his hair, glancing at her questioningly.

She merely grinned in response. “I like my hair just the way it is. It’s unusual, and everyone remembers it. And it’s not nearly so chaotic as you think. Now, shall we go?”

It was most definitely against his better judgement, letting these two lions lead him from the warmth of his burrow, but follow her he did.

#

“Your choice in wine is surprisingly decent.” Draco took another long sip of the white, rolling it on his tongue and savoring the crisp, sweet flavor. “Bright. Airy. Good for a warm day.”

“I just thought it tasted like a picnic,” Harry admitted. “The lady in the shop asked what the meal was, and I said finger food under the sun and to give me something that tastes like sunshine.”

“It worked.” Hermione’s voice had gone lazy as she sipped at her second glass, a strawberry crushed in the bottom of it. “It’s perfect, Harry. See, Draco, it isn’t a horrible afternoon, is it?”

“Better than categorizing every artifact the Malfoy family has ever owned.” Harry gulped down the rest of his glass and set it down so he could lie back on the blanket, staring up at the clouds. Hermione’s fingers found his fringe, lightly brushing through the dark strands.

Draco envied them their relaxation, their ability to lounge and let go. He sat with his knees bent, feet planted on the ground, his shoulders only slightly slumped with one arm across his knees to lean on them. His body canted away from them, denying his desire to join that easy camraderie. Denying his jealousy of their unconscious affection. “That was hardly every artifact, Harry.” The name still sounded odd on his tongue, far too familiar and somewhat uncomfortable. “Not every artifact we have ever known is Dark.”

“Oh?” Hermione sat upright, eyes wide open. Draco might have known that would prick her interest. “Such as?”

“The Malfoy family rings, for one.” 

She cocked her head, curious. “I thought we saw those. Item number two forty three, wasn’t it?”

“Two forty-two,” Harry corrected, laughing when they both looked at him. “I had to write it all down, remember? The rings were right after the lamp that bit you, ‘Mione.”

“Ah, no, that one particular ring was crafted specifically for Aloysius Mafoy’s marriage. These are merely rings designed never to fade, never to break, and to fit their owner perfectly. They were crafted in 1673 and have been handed down to be used by the eldest Malfoy and his bride since.” Draco’s gaze drifted skyward. “Until now.”

“You’ll use them when you get married, won’t you?” Hermione reached for another strawberry, popping it into her mouth and sighing happily. It was a strange, soft, content sound that wound around Draco’s gut. She caught his eye and smiled, reaching out to brush his fingers with her own.

Draco pulled away, making space between them. He swallowed a long drink of wine, draining his glass and setting it aside. “I should,” he said as he looped his arms over his legs and looked up into the clouds, seeking patterns in the puffs of white on blue. “It is most certainly what is expected. But frankly, I have no desire to subject myself to the whims of pureblood society, and I doubt there are many who would wish to ally themselves with the Malfoy name.” Which was far more honest than he intended to be, but the wine perhaps had loosened his lips. His expression soured. “I should get back to the Manor.” He looked from Hermione to Harry, then back again.

“Already?” Harry rolled up to sit, looking disappointed.

“Thank you,” Draco said quietly. “This was… surprisingly pleasant.”

“We’ll do it again,” Hermione told him.

“We will?” Harry’s eyes widened in mock horror. She thwapped Harry on the arm, and he laughed and nudged her back. “All right then,” he agreed, although it was obvious it had been his intention all along. “We’ll come haul you out of the mouldering manor home of yours. It isn’t healthy, lying about with all that death hanging over you.”

“The war’s done.” Draco pushed himself to his feet, brushing stray bits of grass from his trousers. He avoided looking at either of them.

“Exactly.” Harry came to his feet in a fluid motion, reminding Draco of how graceful he had always looked on a broom. He clasped Draco’s hand and tugged him closer to clap his other hand around his back, against his shoulder. “And that’s why you need to stop acting like you’re still trapped in that place. The war’s over. It’s time to live again.” Harry held on just a bit too long, waiting until Draco pulled away before letting him go.

Draco stood stiffly, taking measured breaths, waiting for Harry to turn before he dared apparate away.

#

It was Gryffindor madness, Draco decided. It was that need to barge in and save the world, or a person, whether the saving was actually needed or not. That was the only thing that could explain the fact that Hermione and Harry managed to appear on his doorstep nearly every evening after their work day was done, and early again on the following Saturday.

On Monday they convinced him to step out to see a Muggle film, tugging him onto the Tube and standing close when he regarded the Muggles around him with discomfort. “It’s easier when you grow up with it,” Hermione whispered in his ear. Her fingers brushed his and he yanked his hand away, crossing his arms and trying to ignore the soft press of her curves against his side. When the beastly cage turned a corner, Draco fell off-balance and Harry’s arm went around his waist, solid and steadying him against the incessant sway.

On Tuesday it was the Tube again, into the theater district for a show and afters. As they ate sweet cakes at nearly midnight, Draco pointed at each of them in turn. “Don’t you each have a Weasel to bother?” he asked, curious despite himself about their seeming lack of redhead attachment.

“Ginny and I broke up ages ago, and she’s been on the road with the Harpies,” Harry said around a mouthful of treacle tart.

“And Ron’s been married for a year now, didn’t you know?” Hermione looked at him as if Draco would actually have bothered to pay attention to what a Weasley did with his life. “Now that Lavender’s pregnant,” she continued, “he’s been terribly busy trying to keep up with her quirks and cravings. Not that he minds. I think he believes that any excuse to eat in the middle of the night is a good one. He’s going to look like he’s the one having the baby soon enough, I expect.”

They were with each other then, Draco decided once again, studiously not thinking about the kiss Hermione bestowed on his cheek as the evening ended, or the way Harry continued to stand too close in the Tube.

On Wednesday, they brought takeaway to the Manor, giving Glich samples of what they claimed was the best curry London had to offer, and insisting that the elf be able to replicate it for Draco any time he might desire. Draco admitted that the samosas were particularly delicious, and that his elf had never been good at curry. When Harry said they could bring it by any time, Draco didn’t refuse, although he wondered again what game they played.

But he waited, wanting to see what their next move was. After all, he couldn’t counter their attack if he couldn’t predict it. And so far they hadn’t played it out far enough for him to see. The Snitch would show soon enough, and he would end this lion’s game.

On Thursday, Hermione came alone. She brought a stack of paperwork, apologizing for her need to work and for Harry’s absence. Draco lit the fires in the library and they each took a wingbacked chair. Over a bottle of wine, Hermione explained the case that Harry was working on that had taken him to Italy on the track of a suspect, then told him about her own work. Midnight found them deep in a second bottle of wine and a discussion of ancient Sumerian artifacts that had shown traces of very early magic. When Hermione nodded off, Draco didn’t wake her. Instead he summoned a blanket and banked the fire and left her there in the warmth of the room.

When he returned in the morning after his own sleep, she was gone, and he told himself that he was not disappointed by her absence.

On Friday, no one came. Draco stalked through the hall late that evening, furious that the Manor was empty, and even more furious with himself for that anger and expectation. An owl arrived late, pecking at his window after he’d retired for the night, refusing to stop until he relented and gave it entrance. It waited while he opened the note.

Malfoy. Wait, I mean Draco. Sorry, it still seems odd to write that. Anyway, I’ve just managed to get in from Rome and I’m bloody well exhausted. ‘Mione had this dinner she had to go to at the Weasleys. I know you’re not fond of them, but you ought to give them a chance. She was supposed to tell you last night, but I don’t know if she did. Or if she mentioned the match tomorrow. We’ll be by around half eight to collect you. I’ve a portkey so we can go see Puddlemere play the Falcons. Three tickets, although ‘Mione’s not that interested in Quidditch, but she said she’d go for our sake. I’ve been wanting to get you out to a match and it seemed like a good thing to do to make up for having been gone. You’re responsible for dinner after, assuming the game actually ends by dinnertime.

Yours, Harry

Draco folded the note neatly and dropped it into the drawer of his nightstand. He sent the owl on its way with a reply saying that’d he be ready come morning, then with a small smile, he finally slept.

On Saturday, when Quidditch was done, they returned to the Manor for dinner, and later retired to the library for wine and sweets. After the third bottle, Harry insisted on clearing space in front of the fireplace and conjuring a thick rug to lie down on. Hermione curled up next to him, her head on his shoulder, and Draco remained in one of the two wingback chairs, knees bent, feet curled over the edge of the chair, chin on his knees. Whatever they might say to the contrary, he thought, there was something between the two of them.

Something that he envied.

“You ought to come down here, too.” Harry patted the empty space on his other side.

It was uncanny how they seemed to read his mind, when Draco knew he kept his emotions carefully behind a cold mask. “I’m fine where I am.” He wasn’t, of course, but he wouldn’t let them see that envy. His weakness. He didn’t need their pity.

“How strange to think that something that began with dark artifacts could come to this,” Hermione murmured with a soft laugh. She wiggled when Harry’s hand drifted down her side, fingertips nudging her ribs to tickle her lightly.

“Darkness has as much to do with intent as magic,” Draco reminded her. She tilted her head back, and he admired the long stretch of her neck, wondering when she had gone from mudblood to beautiful in his mind. Highly inappropriate thoughts, particularly for a Malfoy. “You had wished to see artifacts that were not drawn from darkness.”

“Yes!” Hermione pushed to sitting, Harry joining her, arms wrapped around her when she tried to pull away. She gave a smile and a sigh, letting herself fall back against him.

“Give me one moment, and I shall return.” Draco knew he could simply summon what he wished, but leaving the room gave him a moment to compose himself, and a moment for Harry and Hermione to be alone. He wondered if their efforts to pressure him for friendship had brought them closer together, or if they had always seemed to be just on the cusp of falling into bed together. Whichever it was, he found himself uncomfortable as he watched it, leaving him longing for something of his own.

He hated that sensation, that feeling of need. He shouldn’t need, shouldn’t care. He was fine alone.

The item he sought was in his room, in the back of an antique jewelry cabinet that had belonged to his mother. The small silver lamp sat in his way, and as he picked it up, he paused, a small cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. He touched the rune with the tip of his thumb, and breath caught. He had wished, hadn’t he? He had wished for someone to fill the void, to take away the weakness of feeling so terribly alone in this place.

And on the heels of that wish, somehow the fates had brought Harry and Hermione to him.

Lips pressed thinly as he regarded the lamp. “Put everything back the way it is meant to be,” he muttered at it. “I do not need your pity, nor anyone else’s. Let them live the lives they ought to lead.” He set the lamp down on his bureau again, pushing it off to one side. The box he wanted was buried in the depths of the jewelry cabinet, and when he drew it out, he felt the zing of old protective magic around it. He didn’t bother opening it, simply slipped it into his pocket and returned to the library.

They were still on the rug when he walked in, Hermione lying on her stomach, chin propped on her hands, watching the fire while Harry lay next to her, hand painting idle circles in the small of her back. They were the picture of the perfect couple.

Draco crouched next to them and set the box where they could see it. With a tap of his wand, he invoked the spell that would allow someone who was not a Malfoy to open it safely, then he swallowed hard, knowing this was the last time any Malfoy would do so.

“What’s this?” Hermione reached out, not quite touching the box.

“Open it.” When neither of them moved, Draco nudged the box closer. “It isn’t going to bite, Hermione,” he said dryly. “Nor is it a trick. It is a gift.”

She reached for it first, fingers curling around the box before Harry tried to grab it, thumb touching the edge and pushing up until it opened. As light caught the stones within, she gasped softly. “This isn’t a gift, Draco,” she whispered. “This can’t possibly be a gift.”

“Ah, but it is.” He sat back, legs still bent, arms around his knees as he watched them. 

Harry reached into the box first, carefully taking out the larger of the two rings. It seemed a simple white-gold band from a distance, until one looked close enough to see the gently etched serpent inlaid in the metal. Tiny chips of emerald and diamond marked the scales, an altogether intricate design. Hermione withdrew the smaller of the two, the diamond at the center of the ring surrounded by a bevy of emeralds, the band itself encrusted at the top with tiny stones.

“The Malfoy rings,” Harry said. “Why are you trying to give these to us?” Draco couldn’t read his expression, couldn’t define what was meant by Harry’s furrowed brow or the way his gaze lingered on Draco as he licked his lip. There seemed to be something more there than mere confusion.

“Draco, these are precious heirlooms.” Despite the reluctant words, Hermione had the ring in her hand, fingers sliding against the stones, tasting the feel of it with her fingertips.

Draco smiled at the light in her eyes and inched forward. He took the ring in two fingertips and slid it over her ring finger. “They are, indeed, precious heirlooms. But they are also a relic of another time, and a reminder that I have a choice: I can either cling to the past, and to what I am supposed to do, or I can give these rings to two people who might have a far better use of them than I do. And,” he held up one finger, pressing it against her lips when she would protest, “if it comes to pass that I have need of my own rings someday, I shall then start a new tradition, and create my own heirloom to pass down. These are of an era that has ended, and I should like to see them create something new as well.”

They both sat in stunned silence, and Draco huffed a sigh. “Neither of you can see what is writ so plainly between you,” he said firmly. He took Harry’s hand and carefully placed the other ring upon it. “Look beyond your friendship. You have each already found your partner, and if you would stop long enough to look, you might well see that.”

Harry blinked, brow furrowed and green eyes darkened. “What are you on about?”  One hand raised, reaching towards Draco and falling short to rest upon his own knee instead.

Blind. Glasses or not, it was obvious that neither of them was willing to see the truth. Draco gripped Harry’s hand with his one hand, and Hermione’s with the other. He slowly brought them together until their hands were clasped at the center, and he could feel both rings beneath his fingertips. Hermione watched him in bewilderment, gaze sharp, trying to ascertain his meaning, while Harry merely seemed confused.

“I give you these rings in all honesty,” Draco said. “As a gift to your future, as a means and a promise for change. I give them to you for each other, and a symbol of how we all have changed since our childhood and the war.” It was the right thing to do, he knew, to give them this gift, and this promise to help guide them towards their future. He felt the weight of each word fall from his tongue, and felt the warmth of their grasp in his hand.

He felt the moment something clicked into place, Harry grunting as if he’d been punched in the gut, Hermione’s gaze flying wide.

“What have you done?” she whispered.

“Given you your wedding rings,” Draco said. “For when you and Harry finally decide to—”

“There’s nothing between Harry and I!” Hermione squeaked. “Not other than friendship. I’ve been trying— He’s been trying—” her mouth snapped shut, color flooding her cheeks. “Never mind. I need to—” She stumbled to a stop, words pinned behind the hand she clapped over her mouth. “Oh my.” Soft and muffled. She rolled to her feet and took a stutter step towards Draco.

To his surprise she pressed a kiss to his lips, quick and urgent, a little whimper under her breath as she pulled back and stared at him. “I have to go.” The words fell out in a rush, then the lioness fled.

“I’d say I never thought I’d see that, but I’d be lying. I figured all along she was more your type.” Harry said. He stood close behind Draco, close enough to feel the warmth of his body drawing Draco in. “She’s been flirting with you all week. You didn’t notice?”

Draco blinked. “Hardly. She was sprawled all over you.” But he could still taste the wine from her lips, still feel the answering buzz deep inside of him that wanted more than that brief kiss.

“She and I, we’re mates.” Harry’s hand fell on Draco’s shoulder, and Draco turned in response, grey eyes meeting green. “But I think things are about to get complicated.” Harry’s hand slid to cup Draco’s face. Draco froze, not quite believing what Harry meant to do until he felt the press of another kiss. This was firm and determined, but no less urgent. Harry’s tongue demanded entrance, and Draco allowed it in the surprise of how much warmth coiled in his gut, and how quickly his body responded. He had never considered this, yet now that it had happened, it felt as right as the quick kiss earlier from Hermione had felt.

And that rightness seemed terribly wrong.

Draco pushed at Harry, shoving him away. “Get out,” he said, pushing him towards the door. “Isn’t it enough that the two of you must barge into my life, destroying my peace and quiet with your determination to drag me out into the light? Or must you tease me with this as well? I’m not interested, and I’ll expect you to stay away.”

“I don’t think I can do that.” Harry took a step backwards even as he denied it. “I don’t think either of us can. And obviously we don’t want to.”

“You can, and you will, and Hermione will as well.” Draco crossed his arms, standing firm. He was not going to get involved. He was not going to allow these lions to upset his carefully constructed life. He would not think back over their outings and a dozen different touches from each of them. Quiet, subtle, easy to ignore when they happened and just as easy to remember now that his body was alight with wanting. He glared, fixing his mask in place. “Get out, Potter, and don’t come back.”

“Harry.”

Draco refused to give ground again. “Potter,” he said sharply. “Now go!”

It was only a moment later, and Potter was gone as well, the Manor as empty as it had been weeks ago, before this invasion began. Draco’s footsteps echoed sharply against the stone floors as he stalked back to his room.

This was right, he told himself. This was as it should be. A snake’s burrow, a snake’s safety.

Alone.

#

He had thought he would be alone longer, but Sunday morning Glich informed him that the Mudblood had returned. “Put her in the front drawing room,” Draco ordered, and took his time preparing himself for the day. She was an unwanted guest, and perhaps if he delayed long enough, she might leave.

But when he stepped into the room, she was there, hunched over in a chair, wild hair tangled as if it hadn’t been combed that morning. She leapt to her feet, then stopped, mouth open, a soft sound in her throat as she seemed to hold herself in place, balancing on her toes. “I was up all night,” she said. “With Harry.”

Draco smiled thinly. “And you feel the need to inform me of your bliss why? I could see the attraction between the two of you, Granger. That’s why I gave you the rings.” He wouldn’t examine why the image of the two of them entwined twisted in his center in ways he didn’t understand. Why it made him want to grab her and seek out any signs Harry might have left upon her skin, and kiss his own marks into being there as well.

She was a Mudblood.  Entirely unsuitable, posturing friendship with him solely because she was a war hero who could not resist rescuing a lost dog like himself. An attraction was unthinkable.

“It’s not like that.” Her skin turned soft rose. “Well, it was, but not like you think. We’ve never—ever—before. But last night we couldn’t seem to stop ourselves.”

“Congratulations,” Draco said dryly. “I’m quite pleased, and also quite certain you two will be blissfully happy. I might even avoid saying I told you so, as I did, just yesterday. There’s no need to invite me to the wedding, as I do believe I have already provided a gift.”

Hermione took a step towards him, wobbling on her feet. She reached up and tugged at the band tying her hair back, fingers fluffing through the strands until they spilled around her face. They softened her expression, accentuating her eyes which were already dark-rimmed and wide. “There won’t be a wedding, Draco. I think we’re already married.”

He blinked twice. “I assure you, I’m no priest and that was no marriage ceremony.”

“But these were wedding rings, and you put them on us.” She held out her left hand, the ring sparkling against her skin. “You married us, Draco. Bonded us.”

He reached for her despite his better instincts, her fingers settling against his palm as he held her hand loosely. The ring held the heat of her skin, and it looked different on her hand that he remembered. It had taken on a warmer hue from her skin tone, comforting. Comfortable. “Then again, congratulations are due,” he said, letting her go. “As I’ve said several times, you and Potter—Harry—” he self-corrected at her look. “You’ll do quite well together.”

“You aren’t listening to me.” She took another step, and another, coming in close to him, her hands on his shoulders as she looked at him. Hermione Granger wasn’t a small woman, for all that he suspected her waist would be tiny if he were to rest his hands there. But she was very nearly his height, and easily looked him in the eye, pinning him with her gaze.

“You gave us the rings, Draco,” she said quietly. “You spoke the vows. You married us. It’s not that you married Harry and I to each other, but that you—”

He followed her train of thought in a quick burst of horror. “Impossible,” he snapped. “Bonding magic doesn’t work that way, nor is it intrinsic in the rings. Nor did I speak formal vows.”

“Then explain this.” Her fingers trailed against his cheek, and Draco’s eyes drifted closed. He was aware of her presence even without being able to see her, and could sense every place where she touched him. He knew when she lifted her fingers away, and knew when they would fall again. He felt the hitch in her breath, and an answering pull in his groin, the ache mollified when she sank against him, fitting herself to his body, soft curves cradling his hard angles.

He kissed her without thinking and it felt like finding home. A soft ringing around him, filling the depths of his ears. A shuddering through his body as that one simple connection felt right.

Impossible. Absolutely and completely impossible.

He heard a moan, recognized it as his own when her hips shifted, pressing into him. She wanted him, needed him as much as he needed her right that moment. But he couldn’t give in to it, couldn’t let this happen so easily. “It’s not possible,” he murmured, teeth grazing the skin of her neck, imagining that he could taste Harry there and wondering why that seemed so appealing. “If there is a bond, it’s impermanent. Stay away, and it will be gone in days. Go enjoy the time in bed with Harry. You might have something when it’s done.”

“Do I need to prove this to you?” Hermione pulled back, hands on hips, head cocked. “I’d like to see the information you have on these rings, the history of them. You said they were created in the 1600s, yes?”

“1673.” He frowned. “You’re taking this too well.” Draco’s voice fell flat as he released her, putting distance between her and his aching body. “I can’t think you’d want—”

She raised one hand, finger pointing at him. “Don’t finish that statement, Draco Malfoy, because you’d be wrong. You don’t know what I think, and you haven’t yet learned to ask, rather than making your own half-arsed self-involved assumptions. But if you truly think I’ve spent most of the week with you out of pity, then you really ought to think again. You aren’t a house elf I need to save, and sometimes you’re still just as much of a prat as you used to be. But it was my choice to come here.”

“And if I’m not interested?” One eyebrow arched as he waited for her reply. “And I note that Potter isn’t with you.” Which made him wonder if everything Potter had said about being unable to stay away was a lie, or if they played yet another new game.

Hermione ignored his question. “Show me the history of the rings.” She pointed at the door, motioning for him to lead the way. “I know you have it. You keep notes on everything in this house. It’s one way we’re alike, isn’t it? You’re just as interested in facts and knowledge as I am.” A small smile tilted Hermione’s lips, and Draco had a feeling there was something else she wasn’t adding. He wondered if it was a comparison to Harry, and couldn’t think what it could possibly be if it was.

“I do, indeed, have information on the rings.” Which he would give to her, and then she could leave and he would bar the Manor against her return. Whatever this was, he wasn’t interested. Not with Potter and Granger.

“Good.” She followed him down the hall, moving as easily through his home as if she belonged there. “And you ought to stop trying to think for Harry, too. He’s fancied you even longer than I have.”

Draco gave her a look and she merely smiled.

“All you ever had to do was look at us,” she said softly. “Open your eyes, Draco Malfoy. You might be surprised what you see.”

Her words stole his breath, leaving him hot and aching, mind filled with images he didn’t dare contemplate. Not now. Maybe not ever.

#

She took the book with her when she left, but when she tried to return it on Monday, Draco instructed Glich to meet her, and refused to see her himself. He hadn’t actually barred her from the Manor; such an action might be poorly misinterpreted by the Ministry. But that didn’t mean he should encourage her fancies, either.

He slept poorly that night, woken after fitful bursts of strange dreams that were intensely erotic and left him aching alone. He let himself fall into a half-sleep, images parading through his mind of Hermione’s hand wrapped around his prick and Harry’s mouth kissing his. He stroked himself to completion, coming with a groan as he imagined soft gasps and long moans and the scent of their musk. Then he finally dozed.

Harry refused to listen when Glich denied him entrance to the Manor on Wednesday. Draco heard the footsteps coming down the hall and rose, smoothing his trousers so he could present a calm, cool facade when Harry barged into the library.

“It’s not getting any easier if you avoid us.” Harry stood with hands on his hips, glaring at Draco. The effect was muted by the wild disarray of the shock of dark hair on his head, and the smudge on his glasses as if he’d knocked them awry earlier.

Or perhaps it was a smudge from Hermione’s cheek as she kissed him.

Draco blinked, and saw Harry there, just the same but naked, arousal heavy and thick. He blinked again and Harry was clothed, neatly tucked away inside his jeans.

Draco’s jaw set, tight and irritated. “You can’t simply force your attentions upon me if I am uninterested,” he drawled. “And I can’t think this was your idea. You said yourself that she was flirting with me.” After all, perhaps Hermione had lied.

Harry’s head cocked and he crossed his arms. “I never said I wasn’t.”

Draco knew he should find that offensive, but somehow he didn’t. “You’re trying to say you found me attractive before the rings?” he asked dryly.

“You admit the rings carry bonding magic?” Harry countered.

“I admit nothing. They are rings. Any magic they have might have now could possibly have been imbued over the years, after a number of ceremonies, but what I said was not a spell.” Draco’s pointed chin lifted, stubborn. “Nor did I have any intention of binding either of you to myself. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather bond with less than you.”

“Then we need to undo it.” Harry gave a small shrug. “Hermione thinks we can do that easily enough, so we’ll be by around half six tonight. Dinner first, then we’ll get it done.”

That was too easy. Draco’s gaze narrowed. “You make it sound as if it will be a simple process. And as if you want it undone.”

Harry stepped in close, hands framing Draco’s face as he went still. His lips brushed Draco’s, then a kiss to the tip of his nose, and tugging him down to kiss his forehead. “I’m interested in you, bond or no bond. So’s Hermione. It’s obvious that the bond is making you uncomfortable, so we’ll sort this out then we can pursue you.”

“I’m not interested.” Draco’s voice was hoarse, words swallowed as Harry kissed him again and Draco was lost in a tide of hunger welling up between them. “I’m not.”

“Half six,” Harry said. “As long as you’re sure.” He stepped back, and Draco found he could breathe again with space between them.

“I’m sure.” And he was, of course, and relieved when Harry left. He wanted his life to remain just the way it was, before they had interfered. He liked his life simple.

Although he might admit that it was lonely.

#

Glich enjoyed serving dinner, although with his dour attitude it might not have been obvious to Draco’s guests. But after an hour in which he hadn’t referred to Hermione as that Mudblood once, Draco had to assume Glich was enjoying himself as much as the house elf could. Afters were elaborate: hot coffee with liquor and melted chocolate, rich cakes with cream and a treacle tart specifically for Harry. When Hermione requested fresh fruit, a plate of strawberries, orange slices and grapes was delivered immediately.

She gave Draco a wicked little grin as she dragged a strawberry through the cream and cake before lifting it to her lips. He swallowed hard as he watched her, remembering his dream of those same lips devouring his prick with much the same soft, pleased moan that she let slip as she tasted the strawberry on her tongue.

“What do we need to do to be done with this?” he asked, keeping his tone mild, wanting it gone before they drove him over the brink and into madness.

“Sex,” Harry said.

“Harry.” Hermione’s tone chided him. Her tongue darted out to catch a stray crumb of chocolate, and Draco tried not to stare. She smiled when she turned her attention to him. “He may say it bluntly, but it is true. The rings were never created with a bond in mind save that of marriage. In fact, throughout the history of the Malfoys’ use of those rings, it seems that is all that was created. The Malfoy tradition is for arranged marriage, created without love, solely for the intent of furthering the Malfoy line. But there is another tradition as well. Every marriage that has worn those rings, no matter how it began, has ended a love match. The strength of heart of your ancestors is quite impressive, Draco.”

“What does that have to do with the bond?” Both eyebrows up, waiting as patiently as he could. “This is not a love match.”

“Exactly.”

Draco frowned, not following her logic.

“Sex without love will break the bond,” Harry said. “You don’t care for us, so having sex with us should break the bond that has been created by generations of Malfoys falling in love with each other.”

It made a strange sort of sense if one viewed the twisted logic from the right angle. But if he circled about the idea and looked at it a different way, sex was a consummation, a way to strengthen and finalize the bond of marriage. “It could make it worse,” he mused.

“Worse?” Hermione frowned, then her expression lightened. “Oh. It would only strengthen the bond if that’s what you want from it. The bond comes from you, Draco. It’s yours to break.”

And he did not want this bond. He didn’t want to be attached to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger for the rest of his life. He reminded himself of this, at the same time as he knew he did want sex. Desperately. Hungrily. Anxiously. So much so that his body ached and hardened, waiting for their touch. “Fine,” he said curtly.

When he didn’t move, Hermione glanced at the door to the kitchens. “Here?” she asked, voice a soft squeak.

One eyebrow slid up, and Draco smirked. “Why not?” It was a dare, to see if they truly meant this.

“Why not,” Harry echoed with a grin. He pushed away from the table to stand, wand in his hand. A few flicks and the doors were sealed, the room warded against house elf interruption. Another flick and Draco was naked where he sat, prick half hard.

He wanted to stand, to run, to escape, but Hermione was already on her knees before him, hands pressing against the inside of his thighs, cheek lightly rubbing against the soft skin of his prick. He groaned as her hair fell around her face, tickling his skin, hiding her from view. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he twisted it, wrapping it around his hand to hold it back so he could see her, just as she looked up at him. Her mouth slid open and she let his prick slide between her lips. She made that soft sound, vibrating pleasure around him, and he groaned.

He felt hands on his shoulders and glanced up to find Harry bending down, also naked. He had only a moment to appreciate the view, to realized that he liked the view and that it was just arousing in person as it had been in dreams. Then Harry’s mouth was on his, blocking the view and distracting him with a fiery kiss.

The chair dug into his back, the wooden seat hard under his bare arse. But Draco didn’t want to move away from either of the lovely mouths that were pleasing him so much. He didn’t want to leave the warm hands, the gentle touches, the sense of urgency. The need that he felt from both of them, that was being answered by his own hunger. 

He wanted more. He wanted what he couldn’t have, sitting like this, unable to really reach either of them. He could move them to his room, to his bed, but that was far too intimate. No, here would have to do. Anything else might betray the fact that he cared.

He dug both hands into Hermione’s hair, letting his fingers tangle there as he pulled her up, claiming her mouth. She moaned as he came to his feet, hands sliding down over her back, then to cup her breasts, teasing each nipple with a thumb before capturing first one, then the other, with his teeth and tugging gently.  Draco turned until he leaned back against the table, bringing Hermione with him, giving himself the luxury of touching her all over. Harry must have vanished her clothes as well, and Draco smiled at the thought. “Resourceful,” he murmured.

“Some spells have much better uses than the tradition cauldron cleaning,” Harry replied, his mouth buried in the soft skin of Hermione’s throat, his hands on her hips, one sliding between her legs to stroke her until she whimpered. Draco tugged at one nipple, timing it with Harry’s gently questing fingers, not letting up until they felt Hermione shudder between them.

He loved that feeling of her giving way, of how she gave herself over completely. He loved that sense that she trusted them both completely.

“Your turn,” she said quietly, hands framing Draco’s face. She nudged him back until he sat on the edge of the table, and climbed up to straddle him there. She knelt there for a moment, looking at him, letting him slide his hands over her and explore. Her skin was soft and warm, and he tested spots with his fingertips to see if she whimpered or moaned. When he slid two fingers between her slick lips, she cried out softly, rocking against his touch.

Sex was the key, that tiny little analytical part of his mind reminded him. All he had to do was slide into her, fuck her without caring, and it would be over. He pulled his fingers from her and gripped her hips, helping her rock forward and take him in.

He fit. They fit. He slid in as if there were nowhere else he could possibly be, as if this were where he’d been waiting for all along. He’d had other women before, and they’d felt good, but nothing like this. Never this warmth, this heat, this need to plunge further, merge more, become one with her. With a low groan, he shifted, pressing into her as she ground down with a little cry. Yes. This. Perfect.

He didn’t want it to be perfect.

But.

He wanted it to be perfect.

Draco moaned, helpless against the swift tide of emotion that broke over him. Teeth scraped over her skin, and he rejoiced when she whimpered at the touch. Yes, this was what he wanted. Needed. Almost perfect, but not quite. Something was still missing. One hand slid down her back, reaching out, past her. Questing. Searching.

Fingers caught his and they tangled together. “What do you want, Draco?” Harry asked, soft and hoarse.

“I need you.” Each word was slowly said. Careful and cautious, not quite ready to admit the truth.

“But do you want me?”

Draco’s fingers tightened on Harry’s. “Yes.”

Something slick dripped onto Draco’s balls, but the pressure when it came was a finger slipped into Hermione’s arse, sliding against Draco’s prick, only a thin membrane separating them. Hermione moaned, fingers gripping Draco’s shoulders as she rocked between them, pleading softly for more. Harry obliged with his prick, pressing into her slowly, letting Draco feel every inch as he slid into place.

He fit. They fit. And it was right.

“Don’t stop,” Draco ordered, and Harry laughed, canting his hips and twitching just so, until Hermione shuddered and Draco squirmed.

Draco gripped Harry’s hips, yanking him forward, deeper into Hermione, sliding against him, fucking them both at the same time. His head fell back, lost in the sensation of it. Both of them. Together with him. All three of them, joined as it felt like it was meant to be.

He felt lips on his skin, teeth lightly scraping until he shuddered under the sensation. Fingers lightly pinched his nipples, and he didn’t know which it was, and didn’t want to look. He just wanted to feel. He wanted to bask in this moment of knowing that everything was where it ought to be in his world, and that he had finally found his place.

“Draco.” Hermione’s whisper was a whimper.

“I want you,” he responded, pulling her mouth to his. “I want you, I want Harry, I want you both. I want to feel you explode around me, I want to bury myself inside of you. I want to feel Harry taking both of us oh Merlin just like that.” His body arched off the table as Harry thrust hard and Hermione cried out, shaking on the edge. “Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

He knew what he was saying. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew what it meant.  And he accepted it.

Harry thrust into Hermione over and over again as Draco thrust up, their pricks sliding against each other deep within her. Her cry started as a whimper, turning to a scream of pleasure when she exploded around them, clenching down on Draco so tightly that he couldn’t stop himself from spasming as well, spilling inside of her. He heard Harry groan, felt their interlaced fingers clench tightly as Harry found his own release.

Warmth, and a low sound ringing around them, soft and vibrating into his bones.

It was done.

#

Draco lay back upon the table, Hermione cradled against his chest, Harry lying beside them. Hands stroked skin idly, maintaining that connection, that loose limbed need to feel each other.

“That didn’t end it,” Draco finally murmured.

“No, it didn’t,” Hermione agreed. “I can feel your heart beat.” A soft laugh. “Without touching you. It’s inside of me. Both of you. As if I’ll know how you feel, no matter how far apart we are.”

“Do you think it’s worse, then?” Harry asked.

Draco considered the words carefully, then sighed and shook his head. “I can’t think what we’re doing here, but I can see that we are, indeed, doing something. And this part, at least, was quite pleasurable.” A small pause, and he smirked teasingly. “I give you leave to court me.”

Hermione thumped a hand against his chest. “Prat.”

“Git,” Harry added.

“I am who I am,” Draco cautioned. “You can’t expect that to change.”

Hermione made a low noise of assent, slipping into a small snuffling snore as she wriggled closer. Harry snorted softly, but made no further comment.

And as for Draco… he decided that perhaps running from lions wasn’t his best option, not when it was so pleasant to be caught. The rest… they would figure it out as time wore on. It seemed they had a future together, after all.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Running from Lions [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3127415) by [semperfiona](https://archiveofourown.org/users/semperfiona/pseuds/semperfiona)




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